The Case of the Photo Finish (4 page)

Nancy turned into her driveway just as two people in white warm-up suits came down the porch steps. One was the Swiss girl, Annelise. The, other was a tall barrel-chested guy with bushy red hair, broad shoulders, and muscular arms. Nancy waved as she brought her car to a halt.

“Hello,” Annelise said as Nancy got out of the car. “We walked over to see Cheryl, but she is not in the house now. Oh—this is Ramsay Roberts. He's from Canada.”

“Hi, Ramsay,” said Nancy. “Are you a runner, too?”

He grinned. “With my build?” he said. “Not a chance! My events are the shot put and the discus throw. Are you into track and field?”

“I'm afraid my event is spectating,” Nancy said with a laugh. Turning back to Annelise, she asked, “Did Hannah say where Cheryl went?”

Annelise shrugged. “She went for a run, it seems. I wish she had called me. I would have gone with her. There is nothing like a run to relax the nerves.”

Nancy wondered briefly whether Cheryl's run might have taken her past that pay phone on Winding Way. After all, the threatening caller's thick accent might have been a way to hide the
lack
of an accent.

Up the block, a figure in white came loping around the corner. “There's Cheryl now,” said Nancy.

“Hi,” Cheryl called, coming to a stop in front of them and pulling off her terry-cloth headband. Nancy noticed that she looked uncomfortable when she saw Ramsay.

“What brings you guys this way?” Cheryl asked.

“I was taking a walk and I ran into Annelise,” Ramsay explained. “She said she was coming to see you, so I decided to come along. I tried to catch you at the ceremony, but you got away from me.” He paused, then added pointedly, “That's getting to be a habit, isn't it?”

“Runners are like that,” Cheryl said. “You let them out of your sight for a minute and they're gone.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” the Canadian replied in a voice tinged with bitterness.

Nancy looked from Cheryl to Ramsay. The tension crackled between the two athletes. There must be some reason Ramsay is so bitter, Nancy thought. And she intended to find out what it was. “Why don't you all come into the house?” she suggested. “I bet I could dig up some cookies and a pitcher of lemonade.”

“Thank you,” said Annelise. “That would be very welcome. I did not think it would be so warm at this time of year.”

In the kitchen, Hannah was just taking Cheryl's super-light nylon shorts out of the dryer. She held them up, looked them over, and said, “There, now, what did I say? They're as good as new. Oh, and I put your shoe inserts on the back porch to dry. I'm sure they'll be fine by tomorrow.”

“Doing your laundry?” asked Ramsay. His smile had a mocking edge to it.

Cheryl explained about the overturned jar of honey in her gym bag. “And I know who did it,” she concluded, “because we all know she never goes anywhere without her special honey.”

“Marta claims that someone stole it from her gym bag,” Nancy told Cheryl. “She blames you for the theft.”

“That's ridiculous,” Cheryl said. “Why would I steal her honey?”

“Why would she pour it on your gear?” Ramsay countered.

Cheryl scowled. “I don't know, but I bet Nancy will find out. She's a famous detective, you know.”

There was a short silence, during which Ramsay and Cheryl merely glared at each other. Then Annelise asked, “You are? Really? I have always wanted to see a detective at work. Is it possible I may help you with your case?”

Nancy raised an eyebrow. “Won't the games keep you pretty busy?”

“This is true. But when I am not practicing, I can assist you.”

Nancy thought quickly. The person—or people—who was harassing Cheryl and Marta was almost certainly connected to the games. A source of inside information would be very useful, maybe even essential.

“Thanks, Annelise,” she said. “I haven't planned my strategy yet, but as soon as I know what it is, I'll ask for your help. Now, how about that lemonade I promised you?”

Nancy took the cold pitcher from the refrigerator, while Hannah put glasses and a plate of freshly baked peanut-butter cookies on a tray. “What do you say to the backyard?” Nancy said to the others. “It's nice and shady.”

“Good idea,” said Ramsay. He reached for the tray. “Here, let me take that.”

Nancy opened the back door and held it for Cheryl, Annelise, and Ramsay, then followed them onto the back porch.

Suddenly Nancy saw a glint of light to her left, behind the bushes at the edge of the yard.

It looked like the reflection of sunlight off a gun barrel—and it was pointing straight at them!

“Get down!” Nancy dived forward, catching Cheryl and Annelise in her outstretched arms and pushed them to the floor of the porch.

Behind her, Nancy heard a crash and the sound of shattering glass. Something cold splashed her leg and soaked into her sock.

Ignoring Cheryl's and Annelise's cries, Nancy called out, “You in the bushes! Come out right now, unarmed, or I'll call the police!”

“No, please, don't do that,” a familiar-sounding voice called out. “It's just me!”

Nancy got to her knees and peered over the porch railing. Eric Land was ducking through the bushes, protecting his camera and long telephoto lens with his left arm. That was what she had thought was a gun barrel, Nancy realized. The
crash had been the pitcher of lemonade breaking.

Eric got clear of the bushes and straightened up. “I'm sorry,” he called. “I didn't mean to scare you.”

“Well, you
did
scare us,” Cheryl said, getting to her feet. She sounded furious. “What on earth did you think you were doing, hiding out there?”

“I wanted to get a few candid shots,” Eric explained sheepishly. “You know, ‘Track Star and Friends Share Lemonade and Cookies in Host's Backyard.' ”

“No lemonade,” Ramsay announced, pointing to the broken pitcher. He stood and dusted off his knees. “Not anymore. And the cookies aren't in such great shape either, thanks to you.” He started picking up the pieces of broken glass and putting them on the tray.

“Hey, I said I was sorry, didn't I? Here, let me help.”

At the back door Hannah appeared, a concerned look on her face. When she saw the broken pitcher, she went and got a broom and dustpan.

Taking them from her, Cheryl said to Eric, “You've done enough already. And let me tell you—the next time you pull a stunt like this, I'm dropping the project and writing to the people at
Athletics Weekly
to let them know how you've been acting.”

Eric's face took on a stony look. Turning away from Cheryl, he bent down to help clear up the rubble.

“I'll make more lemonade,” Hannah offered. She took the tray of broken glass from Ramsay and started to go inside. “It'll be ready in a jif.”

“Thanks, Hannah,” Nancy said. She turned back to the others. “Well, let's go sit down. Eric, will you join us?”

“He already did,” Cheryl muttered.

Eric gave Cheryl a pleading glance, then looked at Nancy. “Thanks,” he replied. “Oh—you know those slides you asked me about? The ones at the ceremony today? I was right. There's no place in town that has the equipment to process them overnight.”

“What slides are you talking about?” asked Cheryl. “Of me?”

“I was taking pictures when you fell off the stand,” Eric explained. “Nancy thought they might show something interesting.”

“Like Marta or Helga shoving me, you mean?”

“I'm not saying it's likely,” Nancy cautioned, “but I thought it was worth a try. Eric, is there any way you could send them off for rush processing?”

He hesitated. “I don't think so,” he said unhappily. “The thing is, I was shooting so much that I didn't have time to number my rolls of film. I'm not even sure which one it is.”

“Send them all,” suggested Ramsay.

Eric shook his head. “I can't afford to do that. With a rush job, the lab isn't always so careful. If something went wrong, my whole project could be blown. Sorry.”

Nancy shot a curious look at him. To most photographers, numbering their film was automatic—practically second nature. It seemed odd that Eric would have forgotten.

“Never mind,” Nancy said quickly. “It was just an idea. Oh, good. Here comes Hannah with another pitcher of lemonade. Let's see if we can get it on the table in one piece this time.”

Fifteen minutes later, Annelise stood up. “I must go,” she announced. “Nancy, thank you for your hospitality. Do not forget that I want to help you detect. Will you be at the country club tonight?”

Nancy blinked. She had forgotten that the River Heights Chamber of Commerce was giving a reception that evening for the athletes and their local hosts.

“Sure, I'll be there,” she replied.

Annelise smiled. “Very good. Perhaps we can search for some clues, yes?”

“I hope so,” Nancy said. She had been thinking the same thing. The reception would be the perfect opportunity to see all the athletes together. She just hoped there weren't going to be any unpleasant surprises.

Ramsay rose to his feet as well. He thanked Nancy, nodded coolly to Cheryl, and followed Annelise down the driveway.

Eric stood up. “Uh, I guess I'd better . . . Hey, listen, I really am sorry about before.”

“It's all right,” Cheryl said. She sounded tired. “Let's forget about it, okay? But no more hiding out in bushes, agreed?”

“Agreed. I'll see you guys later.”

He picked up his camera bag and headed for the driveway.

“I do like Eric, you know,” Cheryl said after he'd left. “He gets carried away sometimes, but his heart's in the right place. Not like some of the people I run into.”

“What about that guy Ramsay?” Nancy asked. “He didn't exactly act friendly to you.”

Cheryl looked down at her hands, which were clasped in her lap. “Yeah, well . . .” she began. “It's hard to explain, but at meets, things happen a lot faster than in ordinary life.” She sighed. “I met Ramsay a few months ago at an invitational meet in New York State. Zap! By the end of the first day, it was like we'd been going steady for months. But by the end of the meet, it was over. I don't know why, it just was—for me, anyway. Ramsay had trouble accepting it, but that's just the way it was. He's still pretty bitter about it.”

Nancy frowned. “How bitter?” she asked. “Bitter enough to try to get back at you?”

“Ramsay?” Cheryl stared at her incredulously. “Oh, no. He might make a few remarks now and then, but he'd never try to hurt me. I'm sure of it!”

• • •

Nancy handed cups of fruit punch to George and Bess, then filled another for herself.

“This is quite a sight,” George said, looking around the ballroom of the River Heights Country Club. Athletes and their host families milled about the spacious room, eating, talking, and dancing. A sumptuous buffet table with punch and soft drinks at one end of it had been set up along one wall of the room.

“It sure is.” Bess sighed. Her blue eyes trailed longingly after a tall, muscular young man. “Some of these guys are incredibly gorgeous!”

George rolled her eyes at her cousin. “Do you realize that a lot of the people you're looking at are probably going to win medals at the next Olympics?”

“I realize I'm looking at some real hunks,” Bess retorted. “Who cares about their medals? Come on, let's go meet a few of them.”

Nancy smiled to herself as they walked away. George and Bess might be cousins and best friends, but they never seemed to see things the same way.

“Good evening, Nancy.”

Nancy looked around, and when she saw the
white-haired man who had spoken to her, she smiled. “Oh, hi, Mr. Hornby,” she said. “How are you?”

Lionel Hornby was vice-president of one of the banks in River Heights. Seeing him at the reception reminded Nancy that he was also chairman of the committee that had organized the games.

“I'm splendid,” he said. He gestured toward the center of the ballroom. “What a fine bunch of young people! We read too much in the papers about the problems and not enough about the healthy, wholesome side of our town. I expect the games to be a real boost to River Heights.”

Nancy wondered briefly if she should tell him about the harassment against Cheryl and Marta, but she didn't want to alarm Mr. Hornby-—especially since he was feeling so positive about the games. Until she had a solid case to present, she decided, it would be wiser not to say anything at all.

“Well, enjoy yourself, Nancy. And please give my regards to your father.” With a wave, Mr. Hornby vanished into the crowd.

Nancy started to look around the ballroom for Bess and George but was momentarily distracted when a flash went off in her face. She blinked, then saw that Barbara Williams was heading her way. Behind her was a short blond man with a camera.

“Was that somebody important?” Barbara asked, approaching Nancy.

“Mr. Hornby? He heads up the committee for the games,” Nancy said.

“Really?” Barbara took out a pad and pen. The flash went off again as the blond man with the camera got another shot of Mr. Hornby.

“Who's that?” Nancy asked.

“Who, Steve Bukowski? He's here from Chicago to cover the games. It's part of some big photo contest. He doesn't know his way around town yet, so we agreed to help each other out.”

Barbara cleared her throat, then went on in an official-sounding voice. “Tell me, Nancy, did Mr. Hornby ask you to investigate the mysterious incidents that have been taking place here at the International High School Games?”

Something about Barbara's tone of voice made Nancy look at her more closely. She was wearing a black skirt, a turquoise silk blouse, and a loose jacket that matched her skirt. There was an unusual, bulky-looking brooch pinned to her left lapel, and Nancy was pretty sure that it concealed a tiny microphone that was probably connected to a micro recorder in an inside pocket. Barbara was wired!